Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (28 page)

 
Brant fumed and seethed. Bile burned at the back of his throat but not because of the beating or its aftermath.
 

 
``You really are a bastard, Volodin. And when this is over I swear I am going to get you and see to it that you are put away for a very long time.’’

 
Volodin smiled. ``That may be, but we have a deal, yes? You will help find this material Ms. Carswell stole from me?’’

 
``I don’t seem to have a choice.’’

 
``You see, a partnership. We agree on things already. This is going to be productive. I knew from the moment I heard you’d been assigned to the Carswell case that this was going to work out for the both of us. And now look at us. A virtual merger of equals. As the Americans say, a win-win.’’

 
Volodin grinned with the enthusiasm of an extremist.

 
``You’re not my equal, Volodin.’’ Brant almost spat the words. ``I have your word you won’t touch Ben if I take you up on this little charade?’’

 
``My word. Absolutely.’’

 
Brant rose from his chair. A not unpleasant buzz greeted him as the blood rushed to his head. The moment passed.
 

 
``Take Mr. Brant home,’’ Volodin said to the Dimitris. ``See that he’s tucked in safely.’’
 

The next few days were a blur.

 
As promised, the Dimitris returned him home. The Hyundai showed up on the curb outside the townhouse the following morning. The Beretta had also been returned.

 
Marcellus found him in the foyer, curled into a ball and shaking like a baby. She wrapped him in a blanket and sent him to bed, a look of stern rebuke mixed with concern on her face.

At first, Brant had no idea where he was. Had he been in an accident? Had he hurt someone? He wavered, traversing a thin line between consciousness and sleep. Marcellus fed him soup, toast and painkillers. Her voice was a soundtrack grounding him to the present.

 
The next morning he awoke with a fever and tremors running the length of his body. He was delirious. He called out for Maggie. Waves of nausea left him breathless and weak. His left shoulder, the one that had taken the worst of the beating, ached.

 
``What have you been up to?’’ Marcellus tutted scornfully as she placed a cold compress to his forehead.
 

 
He didn’t answer. His body was floating. His mind was in turmoil.

 
Ben appeared at his side, but just for a moment. Tears ran down the little guy’s cheeks as he surveyed the wreckage. Marcellus shoed him away, promising that whatever ills his father faced were temporary and benign.

 
He longed to console his son, but lacked the energy to speak in full sentences.

 
``We need to get you to a doctor,’’ she said when the fever refused to break.
 

 
Brant grunted in protest. Or thought he did. The world tilted on its side.

Time seemed to pass as if in an alternate universe.

Awake, Brant inspected the hospital room. Shadows ran along the ceiling. The bed adjacent was empty, its sheets stripped, the mattress stained. Outside his door, a nurse guided the tentative footsteps of a robed patient attached to an IV drip.

 
A doctor appeared by his bedside carrying a set of MRI films in an oversized envelope. He was a mere kid, underweight, undernourished and overconfident. He smiled when Brant vomited into a plastic bowl.

 
``We’ve given you something for that. You should start to feel better soon.’’

 
An IV line ran from his forearm to a clear plastic bag hanging on a pole by his bedside. Wires had been attached to his chest. A heart rate monitor chirped enthusiastically.

 
``Why am I here?’’ Brant asked.

 
``You were running a high fever. Your sister was concerned the bullet in your head had shifted.’’

 
``Marcellus?’’

 
``She’s downstairs with your son. They went to get something to eat.’’

 
``How long?’’

 
The doctor tapped the leg of his pants with the films. ``You were brought in yesterday afternoon. The fever’s down. Vitals are good. You can go home as soon as you feel up to it. You took quite a beating. What happened?’’

 
``I fell,’’ Brant said after a moment of thought.

 
``Fell? You mean down a flight of stairs or something?’’

 
``Yes.’’

 
The doctor pulled something from the pocket of his white lab coat.

 
``Can you sit up?’’

 
``I think so.’’

 
Brant dangled his feet off the edge of the bed. The doctor pricked the side of his face with the end of what resembled an oversized toothpick.
 

 
``Can you feel that?’’

 
``Yes.’’

 
``Any difference between the right and the left?’’

 
``I don’t think so.’’

 
The pricking continued, first the forehead, then the cheeks, then the chin. The doctor repeated the examination on each side of his face. When he was satisfied, he pressed Brant’s eyelids shut with his thumbs.

 
``Try to open your eyes.’’

 
Next, the doctor placed his right hand against the left side of Brant’s forehead.

 
``Try to move my hand. Okay, now smile. Like this.’’

 
The doctor’s face broke into an exaggerated grin. Brant mimicked the doctor’s action.

 
``No neurological damage. That’s good.’’

 
``Can I leave now?’’

 
``We need to report this,’’ the doctor said. ``Your sister says you’re police.’’

 
``No paperwork,’’ Brant replied. ``Please.’’

 
The doctor hesitated before turning anew to the MRI films.

 
``I checked your records with the other hospital. The bullet in your head is nonferromagnetic. We were able to put you in the MRI for a scan. Do you remember?’’

 
Brant shook his head. He had no recollection. He’d had a vague sense of movement, but nothing in which to anchor him to a specific moment or action.

 
``The scans came back. You’re a very lucky man, Mr. Brant. The bullet hasn’t shifted.’’

 
The doctor slapped the MRI films securely into a lightbox at the side of Brant’s bed.
 

 
``This white object in the scan, that’s the bullet.’’

 
The doctor ran his finger along the outline of a white shadow set against the darkened folds of Brant’s brain. His eyes were two white orbs dangling grotesquely from stocks attached to the right and left hemispheres. A white border was the bony container of his skull — impossibly thin and delicate.

 
``The bullet is sitting in this fissure here. It’s not doing any damage at the moment but there’s always a risk it will shift. Maybe not today, or tomorrow. But sometime in the future this is going to cause problems. I don’t see any cranial nerve damage. Do you have headaches?’’

 
``Some, yes.’’

 
``I’m not surprised. I can refer you to a neurosurgeon. We have a very good team here at the hospital.’’

 
``No surgery,’’ Brant said gravely. ``You say it’s not doing anything? Let’s leave it alone.’’

 
The doctor turned solemn. ``It’s a tough decision.’’

 
``Not really.’’

He was released later that afternoon. Marcellus drove. Ben sat in the back, staring wordlessly out the window. They’d given Brant painkillers and something for the nausea.
 

 
Good to his word, the doctor had attributed his injuries to an accident. No medical investigation report would be filed.

 
``Your insurance company won’t like it,’’ the doctor had said as Brant dressed to leave.

 
``Leave that with me.’’

 
Marcellus sulked. She was pissed. At what, he had no clue.
 

 
Vintage 80s on the car sound system. Marcellus had found an old CD in the glove compartment. `Right Here Waiting’ by Richard Marx played, lulling him into a stupor with the soft opening cords.

 
``Is it worth it?’’ Marcellus asked as they turned on to Providence Street.

 
``Is what worth it?’’

 
``This job. It’s killing you.’’

 
Brant considered the question. So that was what was bothering her. She’d always had a problem with his decision to become a cop. She’d said he could do better, could aspire to something more. How could he explain the seductive lure of the job, of the possibilities it offered to make a difference.

 
``It’s complicated, Marcellus.’’

 
``You seem to want to hurt yourself. It’s an obsession.’’

 
``You’re being unfair,’’ Brant said gently. ``I’m trying to do better.’’

 
``Show me you mean it.’’

 
``What do you want me to do?’’ he asked.

 
``Whatever this case is, drop it.’’

 
``I can’t do that.’’

 
``Then don’t expect me to pick you up from the hospital next time.’’

 
They drove on, neither saying a word. Brant stared out at the passing blur of buildings as she turned onto Newbury Street. Shoppers lined the sidewalks. A chocolatier had set up a stand on the pavement. Kids with balloons danced in circles while young couples pushed babies in strollers.
 

 
He turned to Ben in the backseat. The little guy turned his head away as a rebuke. The kid had been crying and his eyes were puffy and red. Ben’s lower lip quivered as he fought to keep the tears at bay. Brant’s heart ached. How could he explain that this is what his father did, that there were bad people in the world who thought nothing of hurting another?

 
``Who’s Sergei?’’ Marcellus asked unprompted.

 
``Sergei?’’

 
``Some flowers arrived yesterday. The card was from Sergei. He says he hopes you get better soon.’’

 
Brant fumed. The bastard. He was being taunted, played. He’d somehow fallen into a dangerous orbit with Volodin at the center.
 

 
``He’s an old friend,’’ Brant finally said in reply to his sister’s question.
 

 
``How did he know you were in the hospital?’’

 
Brant shrugged. Pain radiated from his shoulder as his neck ached.

 
``I have no idea.’’

He returned to the office the next day, battered and slightly bruised but feeling remarkably fit for all the trauma. His shoulder was tender and his neck pinched. A dull pain gripped his temples, mediated by medication.

 
Dennis Tate sat in the adjoining cubicle, eyeing him warily as he flicked through the pages of a book Brant had left lying on his desk. Clatterback and Malloy had been sent for coffee.

 
``Jesus, you look terrible,’’ Tate said when Brant grimaced at a twinge of pain. ``What happened?’’

 
``Squash.’’

 
``Like in the game?’’

 
``I took a tumble on the court.’’

 
``Ah, sure,’’ Tate said skeptically, not believing him but not wanting to pursue the matter. He returned to the book.

 
The office hummed. Julian March had called roll. Some uniforms had begun to gather in the briefing room. Tate abandoned the book for a day-old copy of the Boston Globe.

 
``What the fuck.’’
 

 
``What’s wrong with you?’’ Brant asked of the other officer.

 
``The news makes me so frickin’ depressed.’’

 
``Need help with some big words?’’

 
``Hah, hah. You’re a frickin comedian, Brant.’’

 
Brant leaned back in his chair as he watched a convoy of uniforms head toward roll call. A clipboard-wielding sergeant by the name of Johnny Dunlap led the way.

 
``Says here the Chinese spent $22 billion on residential real estate in the U.S. last year. What the fuck’s up with that?’’

 
``What’s up with the language?’’

 
``Huh?’’

 
``Frick and fuck. You can’t seem to make up your mind.’’

 
``Family stuff, Brant. Wife’s on my case ‘cause the kids are swearing like sailors.’’

 
``Wonder where they get it from.’’

 
``Yeah, like you give a fuck, right Brant?’’

 
``What’s got you so riled up about the Chinese? You in the market for a new house?’’ Brant asked, pointing his chin at the newspaper.

 
``You’d think a lieutenant’s salary’d buy you a nice place, right? But these Chinese, see, they’re moving in and buying up everything they can get their hands on. The fuckers don’t have anything else to do with the money, so they come over here.’’